


Under the Ivy

by Liadt



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, catholic guilt is no match for xmas fic, not written by a theologian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-15 11:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20865527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: With Kembleford's Father Christmas out of action Father Brown steps in, but has he been beaten to the role?OrWho needs mistletoe when there's ivy?





	Under the Ivy

Outside, the village of Kembleford was like a chocolate box illustration of the perfect Christmas, with pretty cottages dusted in snow. In the kitchen of St Mary’s presbytery, however, things were less than perfect. 

“I can’t do it!” protested Father Brown, from behind a giant pile of Mrs McCarthy’s mince pies, at the kitchen table. 

“Why not?” said Sid, lounging against the door frame.

“I’m hosting the service, I can’t be Father Christmas at the same time.”

“I'll take over while you get changed. It’s not as if I don’t have experience of playing a priest,” said Sid.

“Why don’t you play Father Christmas?” said Father Brown.

“I don’t have the time to take in poor Kenneth Cotes costume, especially not when it’ll fit you,” said Mrs McCarthy.

Ken Cotes had been the living embodiment of Father Christmas: fat and jolly, with a bushy, white beard. Unfortunately, he’d been murdered last week and the Father and his friends had been busy cracking the case. Last night, Father Brown had persuaded the real culprit to hand himself over to Inspector Mallory. The unexpected murder had taken the attention away from the Christmas calendar and, with only hours to go, Father Brown had remembered they needed a replacement Santa to give gifts at a service for impoverished children of the parish. 

“I don’t have a beard,” said Father Brown clutching at straws, after all, Sid didn’t either. 

“I’ll make you one. I’ve got lots of cotton wool,” said Bunty, who had come over to snaffle some mince pies. “I’ve just bought a pleat of cotton wool and I’ll take over, instead of Sid, as I have made the effort to look seasonal.” Bunty was wearing a smart, red dress and white stole, while Sid was dressed casually.

“All right,” sighed Father Brown, feeling Bunty was the lesser of two evils. 

* * * *

Father Brown adjusted the fake beard around his spectacles and pushed open the door to the small side room in the church where there were sacks of presents. In there, facing away from him was a figure also wearing a Santa outfit. He was crouched over a child’s present tampering with the wrapping. Father Brown sprang forward and grabbed the intruder by the shoulder. The man twisted round.

“Flambeau!” Father Brown let go of him. After recovering from the shock, he added, “Those are for needy children.” Although Flambeau was a thief, Father Brown knew he had scruples of a sort. 

“I know, I was adding something extra.” Flambeau held up a five pound note, folded up into a small triangle. 

“Is the money?”

“Earned through honest, hard graft? Of course not. It is part of the profits from a relic stolen from a nasty piece of work. I’m doing the good they will never do,” said Flambeau, with a smirk which didn’t reach his eyes. 

Father Brown looked disapproving. 

“I won’t tell, if you don’t. Your beard is terrible, by the way.”

“Yours isn’t perfect.” Flambeau’s beard was real, but the thick, white make-up applied to it didn’t make him a convincing Father Christmas either. “And you’re trying to change the subject.”

“Naturally. I know what you’re going to say about dispensing tainted money to innocent children and I’m sure you know what I’m going to say in reply which makes a dull conversation when we both know you won’t do anything to stop me.”

“Won’t I?” Father Brown didn’t sound convincing even to himself. 

“No, because what use is a toy car or doll? It won’t keep a child warm or feed them when they’re hungry. Winter is the cruelest of seasons.” Flambeau suppressed a shiver remembering his own miserable childhood. 

“A child would be just as likely to spend the money on something impractical, like ice skates, rather than a winter coat.”

“At least it gives them an option. It’s the thought that counts.”

Father Brown gave a smile of defeat. “It seems I am going let you get away with it.”

Flambeau put his hand on a chest to push himself up and accidentally knocked some foliage onto the floor. Father Brown automatically bend down to pick up the cutting and their hands touched as they both reached for it. Father Brown snatched his back, like he’d received an electric shock. Their faces were inches apart as they crouched together on the floor. Flambeau looked into his eyes and something in his expression changed and he gave the strand of ivy a thoughtful look.

“Mrs McCarthy’s going to make it into a Christmas wreath,” said Father Brown, unable to interpret his expression.

“The children have their gifts, don’t I deserve something for being good?”

“You have to have been good all year.”

Flambeau rolled the strand of ivy between his fingers, before holding it above their heads. “I think I’ve been good enough for a kiss.”

Was Flambeau having some fun because they were so close or mocking the way he'd withdrawn his hand? “It’s supposed to be a kiss under the mistletoe. There’s some for sale at the Christmas market - maybe a pretty stallholder will oblige you,” said Father Brown, irritably, as he stood up. Flambeau followed suit, like they were two puppets joined together on the same string.

Flambeau shrugged and kept his eyes on Father Brown and the ivy aloft. “You only get a peck on the cheek with mistletoe and I want a kiss with you.” 

Father Brown felt his cheeks go hot. Priest he may be, but he wasn’t so naïve as not to be able to tell the way Flambeau was gazing at him meant he was serious. “Are you trying to tempt me?” he said and the words turned into an uneasy laugh, hoping Flambeau would throw the situation off as a joke. He was nervous because he would like to kiss Flambeau, even in a terrible Santa disguise. He knew he shouldn’t, but then his moral compass was skewed when he was around and shouldn’t he be appalled, instead of feeling excited at the prospect? 

“Despite my better judgment, I find I’m very fond of you,” said Flambeau.

Father Brown looked away - it would be easier to resist if he avoided his eyes, although he couldn’t shut his ears to the sincerity of his voice. 

“You haven’t said ‘no’.” Flambeau gave the ivy a little shake.

“No, I haven’t.” He should have dismissed Flambeau as soon as he suggested a kiss.

“How can I persuade you? You’re thinking it over, I can tell: you’ve got that look on your face. I could make up your mind for you.” Flambeau took a step forward and Father Brown took a step back. “Or I could beg.” He slid a knee to the floor and added a look of appeal to the one of desire. 

Oh dear. It was very flattering to have a not unattractive man want him and he wasn’t so strict as to count kissing as breaking the rules of chastity, for ordinary people, but it wasn’t an excuse to break his own vows, was it? It wasn’t physical desire that motivated him, well, not completely. It was a cliché, but it was his spirit that first attracted him. It was presumptive, he knew, but he thought God would forgive him, for love came from God, after all.

“Oh well, as it’s Christmas,” said Father Brown, with a shy smile. He took his glasses, with the cotton wool beard wound round it, off and put it on the window ledge. Then he closed the distance between them. Flambeau rose and gripped him tightly as if now he’d won his prize, he wasn’t going to lose him. He’d been thinking of love, but Flambeau didn’t kiss like that; it was altogether more passionate and as he made a soft moan of approval he thought vows of chastity could indeed be broken by kissing. Somehow, one of Flambeau’s hands found their way under his red jerkin and slid up the bare skin of his chest. 

“Cold hands,” said Father Brown, with a gasp that wasn't all to do with the temperature. 

“Warm heart,” finished Flambeau, sounding pleased at his reaction. 

He wanted to fall to the ground with Flambeau and let his hands do whatever they wanted, but his eyes flicked to the clock and, he didn’t know if it was real or imagined, but suddenly murmurs of a different kind reached his ears, from outside. “Flambeau.”

“Hercule,” Flambeau corrected and pressed a kiss to his jawline.

“This is more than a kiss.”

“You’ve been _very_ good all year," said Flambeau, huskily.

“The congregation will be getting restless. I should be handing presents out by now, someone will be sent to find out what's happened to me.”

“Sorry,” said Flambeau, reluctantly ending the embrace. “I was getting carried away and forgot it doesn’t matter if I’m caught, it's hardly going to ruin my reputation, I'm already a lawbreaker, but you like it here don’t you?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t relish being sent away by the Church.”

“But you won’t and you’ll be Kembleford’s best Saint Nick instead,” said Flambeau, affectionately wiping traces of white pan-stick off Father Brown’s face with his thumb.

“You’re not going to stay? If you keep your hood up no one will recognize you.”

“The role of mysterious benefactor suits me better. And I have to go now.”

And I’ll be left to wonder when you’ll be back again, thought Father Brown, ruefully, as Flambeau flitted out of his life once more. He didn’t have to wait long this time, as later that night, when he was alone in the presbytery and was about to go to bed, he heard a window open and the soft tread of an expert of these kinds of entrances come in.


End file.
